


If I Look Through Your Armor (And Into Your Glass Heart)

by trashpocket



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: (BIG MAYBE), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Fantasy AU, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, International Help, Kingdoms, Love, M/M, Mages, Magic, Maybe fluff, Pain, Sickness, Slow Burn, Trolls, doing gay tingz, ill add more tags as I go, just gay people, spells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashpocket/pseuds/trashpocket
Summary: Before he can even finish, the world casts them aside.The Grey Death Descends.And long before the kingdom even crumbles, monsters are born, and they tear the land — and in Sweden, magic is forgotten, the neighboring kingdoms fight for survival, and the King flees.The Västerström curse is forgotten.But it is there.---------In which:Emil is cursed (without his knowledge) and he is flung into savage Finland, where he requires a Mage's help.
Relationships: Lalli Hotakainen/Emil Västerström
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

Magic is oft, a beautiful thing. 

It lives in the spirits of rocks from the moors, to the spindly stretches of the trees; twig-fingers reaching for the moon, and willowy grasses in the marsh facing the sun. It resides in the winding rivers splitting the earth apart into sections of land and forestry; breathes through the wind that hail from the icy, snow capped mountains, towards the fjords, and to the glittering coasts. It lives in various birdsong and dance; in thick metal and the harsh kisses of steel. It lives in the words of mages, their patron gods; the milk-teeth of children, the bones of the dead; the laughter of the warriors and the dying words of a man. 

Magic is oft, a beautiful thing — and it lives in all. 

And here is how one man comes to fear it. 

His name is Ulf Västerström, a king of a mighty kingdom, filled with sprawling lands, prosperous villages that raised ornate towers to the skies — spires on top of strong churches; domed buildings that helped to chart the stars at night; cities of tall buildings and complexes — wood, stone, marble. He has a hand over his army, just enough to spread his knights thin across the land, defending small villages, accompanying dukes and duchesses, drinking spirits in the wee hours after victories of small wars and battles. 

Life was good in his kingdom. 

Then Elvira, his wife, fell seriously ill. 

Perhaps she had eaten fruits from a bad harvest in one of their trades with the neighboring lands, or perhaps she had fallen ill to a curse whose casting origin they knew nothing of. But it was great enough that King Ulf had to call in one of their greatest mages of that century — and do not mistake the Swedes of this time as _heathens_ , no — not yet. At this time, magecraft was a valid trade and occupation in the kingdom, and though Swedes did not have as many mages as the Norwegians and the Finns, and the Faroe Islands, they still had a handful of their own. 

Elvira lay still on her bed of silks and satins, four bed posts draped with a thin veil to keep most of her hidden, and to keep the light out of the large ornate room, whose windows most often let soft sunbeams in. That day, the sunbeams were harsh, the curtains left undrawn by a forgetful maid who had been forced to leave the quarters early when King Ulf — accompanied by Mage Elan and one of his apprentices — entered the room to shoo her away. Half of the room was cast in harsh darkness, the only light source being the window that shone mercilessly on one side of the room, casting shadows of dark red and brown in the burgundy rich quarters. Gold outlined the bed and the walls — the satin lace edges, the trimmings, the marbled rim of the fireplace. No fire was lit, the day was hot enough, but the presence of the mage brought comfort to King Ulf’s weary heart. 

“How long has she been like this?” Mage Elan Ahlstrand spoke, voice a soft ivory timbre that whispered thin edges of strength — strong enough to demand respect. In his own bedroom, the King stood tall, and impatient, but he acquiesced the elderly man his answer. 

“For about three weeks now — and I’ve gone through all the different healers and physicians before I came to seek your help, Mage Ahlstrand.” 

“Peculiar. And nothing — not a little clue had been found of the origins of this disease?” 

“I’m afraid not. Have you gleaned anything from this, yet?” 

The ringed fingers of the king tapped rhythmically against his fine tunicked elbows, nervous heart fluttering for a hopeful affirmative. Mage Elan Ahlstrand was a powerful man — hard to seek and acquire, but whose service was worth a thousand men. King Ulf was sure that the man could help. He was _powerful_ , reliable, _safe_ — of course, his wife would be fine! He would trust no one but the best to save his beloved! 

But all was for naught. 

“Three weeks, unresponsive and asleep, yes?” Mage Elan Ahlstrand was speaking, mostly to himself, tapping a gnarled finger against the white beard of his chin. His apprentice behind him, Nadezhda, a young mage in training, nodded, also eyeing the peculiar case of King Ulf’s wife. King Ulf, of course, was not seeing what they were seeing — but they knew what it was, and it would not bode well for them to tell the already impatient king, whose heart of kindness was pulled taut from the last remaining weeks. His wife was his backbone — more her, than truly his own spine. He couldn’t live without her. He had been neglecting his duties as monarch as the queen became worse. The treatises that they had with the other kingdoms were slowly souring with his lack of assurance and presence — but the king hardly paid any mind, with his growing grief. 

Mage Elan Ahlstrand proceeded anyway, sitting at the edge of the queen’s bed, hand outstretched with a prayer on his lips. King Ulf could only watch, as the mage frowned. Walking forward, Nadezhda laid a hand on the frail, elderly man’s shoulder. 

“A curse?” She hastened a guess. 

Mage Elan Ahlstrand looked up and nodded solemnly, patting Nadzehda’s hand on his shoulder. “Indeed, it is. She is fated to die. There is nothing I can do.” 

King Ulf could not believe his ears. The world fell into the background as he strode forward, an incredulous, “ _What?_ ” falling from his lips. His heart dreaded.

“There is nothing I can —”

“ _No_ ! You’re a mage, you can do _magic_! Undoing curses should be a specialty of yours, right?! You _have_ to do something! She is my wife, I am your King! Do as I say and _heal her_!” 

Nadezhda stood in front of her mentor. “There is a curse much more powerful than my master’s, and King or not, we hold _no power_ to undo this! Three weeks, we were called too late, your wife —” 

“ _No_ , no, no, no, no,“ King Ulf was shaking his head, red and bright with anger, “so, powerful mages like you are leaving my wife to _die_ ?! All of you are my last hope, and you’re allowing this curse to _take her?!_ You’ve barely even _tried!_ How strong is this curse supposed to be that even our strongest mages cannot fix this!?” 

Mage Elan Ahlstrand stood, towering over the king with the gaze of deep oceans and the abyss, haunting and all-knowing. “As my apprentice was _saying,_ it has been three weeks. Three long weeks, that it’s a miracle that your wife’s body has survived this long with this curse — one of hatred and envy, sire. A strong one — that if my apprentice and I tried to dismantle it, it would turn on us or on _anyone_.” 

King Ulf was not hearing it. “Please, you have to _do something_! Can the gods not even be called down for her aid?! What use are all of you when you’ve barely done anything!” 

“Do not insult us _or_ the gods, King Ulf. We are magic-touched brethren, and I hold as much pride in myself and my craft just as much as the gods do.” 

“ _Do not_ order me around! You may listen to the gods more than I do, but I am still your king! And your craft has barely done _anything_ to help my wife!” 

“Your wife is _gone_ , King Ulf,” Nadezhda stepped forward, leveling her gaze with the King. “Her body is all that remains. Her soul is gone, and her fylgja has long perished. We can no longer do anything.”

The room was half bright, and half dark, baked with heat on one side, drowned in darkness in the other. The curtains were drawn around his wife, the gold trimmings lit by the sun glittering on the edge of her bed, like a zenith of a moment, sparking an anger as angry as the sun beams that came in. King Ulf’s heart died, sizzling with unfocused rage, he did not know where to direct it but in front of him. 

“Then you’re of no use to me.” He spoke this, so low and so cold, one would’ve thought he was a mage after all, with how the room dropped in temperature. “Cease them.” 

That day — a mage and their apprentice was captured. 

* * *

King Ulf’s kingdom was beautiful, all sprawling lands and flowering fields; churches with spires that touched the heavens and conservatories for beautiful afternoons; domed buildings for gazing at the stars at night. Scholastic libraries grazed the capital, taverns trimming around the sleazy ends. Trade shops and markets were the hot spot in the center, with houses dotting every which way like water drops on a spider web; not to mention the military outposts near the grand forests, and pieces of land cleared for more space, more people. 

But underneath the ground, to the dungeons of the castle — everything was not. 

There was a winding staircase down, towards the belly of the monster, where the sconces on the wall made soot collect in the corners of the ceiling, the metal holders glittering with oil and rust. If you were dragged down, you would know that every stair had a dent and a chipped edge, digging sharply as your back slid and bruised itself over the stone steps, only to have rough, flat ground drag you towards unnamed cells, flecks of dirt and blood crusted into the wet stone. The cells were worse — rusty, cramped, sharp and unclean. Hay served as beds, no window offered ventilation. Shackles for the wrists were too high for one to be able to sit down, and grime collected in unseen corners of the floor. If one saw mold, and mildew — one would not dare mention it to complain. Everything was already bad enough. 

Mage Elan Ahlstrand knew where his life would end: by the hands of a grieving king, who was soon failing his kingdom as he sought to fulfill the revenge in his heart, failing to move on. In the days that Mage Elan Ahlstrand and Nadezhda was kept in horrid conditions, silenced from uttering prayers and sealed away by the hands of other mages (under the order of the King), Mage Elan Ahlstrand — angered, still filled with pride, sought to also seek revenge on his King. 

A revenge that would destroy what was left of him — and everything beyond that. 

Mage Elan Ahlstrand spat out blood, and for the first time, the wooden gag that had been around his mouth had fallen off. He coughed, and smiled. Staring up at the guard before him, eyes wide and bright, he promised. 

“I may not be enough to break strong curses...but I know how to make stronger curses of _my own_. Tell your foolish King that.” 

And that curse would need a sacrifice — and he knew that promise sent to the King would make the King come after his head. 

So Mage Elan Ahlstrand understood. He’d fortify this curse with the spilling of his blood and the cutting of his head. 

Magic was beautiful — just as it was crude and ugly. 

( _The gods gave kindness from their hands, just as they bathed in blood and immortal laughter_.) 

When King Ulf took his place in front of Elan Ahlstrand, mage, healer, the receiver of the King’s wrath — King Ulf was almost mad with grief and hatred. His wife, taken away from him, the gods not listening to his prayers, the mages shaking their heads in the face of his grief, and his kingdom — failing from his lack of guidance. 

_He could end it all here_ , he thought, _by killing this man in front of him_. 

It would be easy. He’d start anew. Incompetent mages had to be rid of. No more failures in his kingdom. No more death, grief, or hatred, for it would all end — 

“For as long as magic runs in these lands, and for as long as your kin follows down the same path — following the spiral of history — all of them are _bound_ to suffer. One way or another — a strong curse that takes many forms. Only _you_ will remember.” 

When Mage Elan Ahlstrand dies, he smiles with a row of sharp teeth, pointed in a smile, disembodied from his shoulders. 

Nadezdha’s fate does not share the same grandeur. She falls ill, and dies in her sleep, and King Ulf thinks he’s left with only two bodies to take care of. 

He is wrong. 

The death of two mages makes its way to the people — and causes an uproar. Treatises with the other nations grow thin and taut — other kings and queens worry, grow suspicious, are alarmed. A healthy portion of the market and trade — magecraft and magic, grow slow, become frightened. People are weary. 

The King has been silent for months. He has not gone over new treaties with the other nations — only to come out with three bodies? 

Two of them — mages. 

One of them — _his wife_. 

The story becomes twisted, and the people fear, and because fear is both beautiful and grotesque; twisted and ironic, the people become angry and want to overthrow the King over his madness and his loose hold of them. His neglectful actions have nurtured a dormant hatred in their hearts, and the death of three people was enough to get the fire going. 

However, the King was wrong — _this wasn’t enough_. 

His son, the prince, his only child Stig becomes frail. 

His son is cursed and loses all the strength in his body. 

The King, with what little power he has left, scrambles for solutions. The answer comes easy to him. 

“ _For as long as magic runs in the land.._.” 

It is easy. With that, the King — with what little power he has left — purges the land of its mages, and destroys any craft of magic, any byproduct of spells, charms, curses. He destroys it all — _destroys what he can_ — to see if the curse persists. If the magic lifts itself and away from them. But it is not enough. 

Before he can even finish, the world casts them aside. 

The Grey Death Descends _._

And long before the kingdom even crumbles, monsters are born, and they tear the land — and in Sweden, magic is forgotten, the neighboring kingdoms fight for survival, and the King flees. 

The Vasterstrom curse is forgotten. _But it is there_. 

The world falls, and the past crumbles; the names and their kingdoms fade, and the land becomes smaller, many places ridden with illness and disease. Magic still lives, only, in more desperate times and measures — in smaller kingdoms and smaller lands. Sweden is a mageless country, full of heathens, with the tragedy of the Västerström’s — _forgotten_.

But their curse persists. 

Stig Västerström had a frail body, and his wife grew ill and died. 

Mia Västerström had brittle bones that snapped and broke like twigs when jostled even a _tiny_ bit. Her husband grew ill and died.

Torolf Västerström, who grew a manic addiction for self-destruction; he gambled everything they owned. His wife grew ill. 

And the strangest of all, Emil Fredrik Västerström, cursed. 

_He had a heart made of glass_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mora, Sweden; Present Time, Year: X - 90
> 
> A Captain accompanies her right-hand warrior back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Suffering sweet like sickness scarred to a laugh  
>  She's my witness startin' to crack  
> Something save me free of my past   
> Ivory Black ___
> 
> __- **Ivory Black, Oliver Riot ******__

Mora, like any other settlement that had remained, was quiet in the hours right before dawn, when most of the world was resting for a new day. Anbaric lights littered the streets, flooding the dirt ground in its luminescence, the only other source of light being nocturnal taverns and a few trade shops littering the sleazy ends. Statues and fountains were preserved well from the old world, and most of the structures of the homes, all brick and stone, more or less remained the same. Compared to the busy, jostling Mora that was alive midday, only a few coaches littered the streets in the early hours, along with farmers and traders making their way to their business for a new sell on the wayside. 

“Well, the place isn’t too shabby, though I think it’d do better with a bit more fjords,” his captain, Sigrun Eide voiced out loud, peering out the opening of the carriage. She was leaning back against the tarp of the carriage, one leg crossed over the other and sword by her hip, poking his shin. 

Emil snorted and broke away from the anxiety that had been clear on his face. “Of _course_ you’d want more fjords in Sweden. I guess you might have to do without them here, though. Expect more hills and lakes, captain.”

She rolled her eyes, leaning her head back. “ _Boring!_ That’s why you have _me_ as your mentor! To make your boring, Swedish life the _bestest_!” 

He chuckled , leaning back as well. 

His “ _Swedish_ ” life had its best parts, but also had their lows. 

He remembered Mora in a different way, far more better than his old home in Östersund ( _or what was left of it_ ), and a bit more bleaker than rowdy, bright Norway. As the carriage bumped and trotted down the square, towards the suburbs and now familiar roads, he saw the alleyways where he used to play with the other kids, _Trolls and Cleansers_ , and it hadn’t really been _fun_ per se, but it had been a memory, disembodied from him now. He would not miss it, but he had learned a lot from it ( _practically scarred into his heart_ ). 

He saw the hidden nook behind an ironworker’s home, where he and the other younger kids had been dumb and naïve and had stolen spirits from a passed out Cleanser who had wondered into town. Stealing the soldier’s flask had been easy, and the spirit itself more exciting — but the ensuing morning after had been regretful. Emil had sworn not to do it again — the _stealing_ part, of course. By now, being a Cleanser and training with the Norwegians made drinking unavoidable in most, and if not, all cases. In fact, Sigrun and her troop had strengthened his resolve and his tolerance for alcohol (though not by a lot). 

There were the familiar roads he used to walk down on, when he had still been jobless. The familiar board signs and posts where flyers would be up, and he was hauling his chubby ass down the road, ignoring his old “ _friends_ ”. Then there was the familiar tree that Bosse used to climb up, and the fences Emil had jumped over when he had been young and stupid, and where he had stopped his own cousins from climbing because he _knew_ the wood on top had more splintery bits than he thought. He had changed it himself last summer. 

“Here’s your stop,” their coach called to them and Emil smiled in gratitude, passing the kroner that had been warmed by his hands, before he and Sigrun hauled their rucksacks and satchels; armors in one, and useless things in the other. 

“ _Please_ don’t be noisy, Sigrun. My little cousins should be sleeping right now,” Emil pleaded as they hauled their luggage on their shoulders. Sigrun had a reputation for being the rowdiest in battle. She always had the capacity to be a war horn, even if she was just merely talking. 

Said war horn winked at him, bringing a distrustful thumbs up. “Got you, right hand warrior! No waking the kids at all!” 

Emil sighed in misery, before breathing in courage and stepping forward into his uncle’s yard, quietly working open the creaky gate and passing under its small roof. The grassy yard was unkempt and overgrown, some bushes and vines already bursting, creeping over one side of the home to reach for the window of his old room. The Blaustein twins were, thankfully (unlike last time), absent from their neighbor’s porch (usually, they’d be drinking by this time of day, and would hurl childhood insults at Emil) and it seemed like, everything was still the same. 

The front door opened before he could even knock at the door. Three little bodies came out, too energetic for that early hour and too enthusiastic to even be able to get back on kilter. 

“Emil! Emil! You’re back!”

“Håkan ruined my dress the other day! Help me sew it back!”

“Is that your captain?! Oh my tooth fell out last night!” 

Little child hands clung to his tunic and the leather vest across his chest, and as if the sun rose high in the sky, Emil bubbled out small laughter, carrying Anna in one arm and pressing a hand to the back of Sune’s head, his face pressed into his waist. 

“This means I can start a ruckus anyway, huh?” Sigrun patted Håkan’s head, who was looking at her as if she was a star, mouth open to reveal a missing tooth. 

“Shut it, Sigrun. Anyways, why are you guys up so early?” 

The home was warm as they stepped inside, cheap orange anbaric lights flooding the house in rustic browns and reds, revealing a stairway to the left of the entrance, and a squashed living room further in. 

“Aunt Helga was coughing up blood again,” Anna whispered thinly into his ear, hugging his neck. “Is she going to die soon, Emil?”

Ice engulfed his heart, almost freezing the tips of his fingers but with a well-practiced smile, he rubbed his nose into her ear to distract her as he said, “Of course, not! Some people get sick, and that means that they’ll only get better from now on, right? Trust me, I’ll try to get the bestest doctor ever!” 

Through Anna’s giggles, Sigrun held his shoulder, quirking a brow up with a twitch of a grin on her lips. “So you’re saying that Mikkel _isn’t_ the bestest?” 

Emil made a face which Sigrun cackled at. “The only _best_ thing about him was his sense of humor — and I’m being generous, here.” 

Emil winced at the thought of the Dane, and the crude scar near Emil’s hip. He absently rubbed a hand on the spot as they walked into the living room, Siv and Torbjörn tiredly looking up from what they were doing, before jumping up in surprise, as if they'd forgotten Emil would be coming back home. Emil didn’t notice Doctor Arvid further into the living room, sitting with a cup of tea in hand. 

Aunt Siv held his face and kissed him cheek to cheek. “Look at you! Another scar on your cheek! Wasn’t one on your collar already enough!” Emil blushed red, trying to regain his bearings in front of his captain. He had an _image_ to uphold, damn it! 

“Dear, scars are a sign of maturity for boys,” Torbjörn tutted, to which his wife narrowed his eyes at him. “Haha, a-at least, I was once told! Now anyways, uh, Doctor Arvid came to check your mother, and —”

That’s when Emil finally noticed Doctor Arvid, perched calmly on one of their squishy couches, cup of tea in hand with a grim darkness to his face. Seeing him made Emil swallow almost audibly, and as if sensing the change of mood, Sigrun patted his shoulder in comfort, told him she'd be telling stories to the kids in their room, and ushered them away with the help of Siv. Without their presence, a brisk silence fell, and Emil strode forward anyway, heart yielding to the unpleasant scenario he had been preparing the whole carriage ride for. 

“Doctor,” Emil shook the doctor’s hands, looking into the eyes of the elderly man. Doctor Arvid nodded at him, shaking back Emil’s hand firmly. 

“Emil, nice to see you again. I didn’t think you’d be back home this early in the day! But at least this makes things easier for me,” he said feebly as he took off his spectacles, wiping them with a clean handkerchief. “I assume you just came back from Norway? No more chest pains, I take it?” 

Emil nodded, sitting back on a stool he had pulled across to sit in front of the doctor. “Yes, my heart’s been feeling a bit better — less faint from what I last remember. I'll be leaving for Finland in a few days with my captain, though. We just came by to see my mother before I’d leave again. I heard from aunt Siv that her medication wasn’t working...” 

“Ah yes, of course, of course, that’s good. Work has been getting demanding and — yes, about your mother...I do not want to dishearten you, young man, but how long will you be away?” 

Perplexed, Emil answered slowly as Torbjörn stiffly stood behind him, like a wall of safety. “Around three to five months, depending on how well the cleansing cycle will go.” 

“I will be frank, Emil, I believe your mother won’t last longer than five months,” Doctor Arvid leaned forward, setting his cup of tea delicately down onto the small table between them like the judgement of a hammer. Torbjörn’s hand fell on Emil’s shoulder as if he _knew_ that Emil would be feeling faint. His heart inside of his chest squeezed and grated so _deliberately_ that it hurt to stay sitting up, but Emil persisted, wide eyes begging to say it was all a jest.

“Coughing up blood, fever spells, and a frail immune system. Thankfully, she doesn’t have the Grey death — _gods forbid_ — but her condition might be equally _worse_. I can’t think of a cure for her, and I don’t even _know_ what ails her. There’s nothing I can do anymore, and that is something I _deeply_ regret saying, but it is the truth.” 

Emil could not say anything for a few moments, truly lost on what to say or even ask, with the sadness and anger curling up in his heart, festering like an open wound whose seams let in a delirious pain. Torbjörn was rubbing his shoulders, offering comfort, but Emil did not feel like he was there, he did not feel like he was in his own body. He did not feel like anything was _real_. _Like Östersund. Like his father._

He reached for the doctor, hand hanging midair as he denied, “No, _no_ , that can’t be right? _Right_? If I could find another doctor out there, she’d still have a chance, wouldn’t she? I — I would have to work more, of course, but I can handle a few months —” 

Doctor Arvid shook his head, tea now cold in his cup as he stood up, delicately reaching for his bag. “I’m sorry, son, but at this point, only _magic_ could save her.” 

A part of Emil’s heart shattered at the words. 

* * *

The threads were as straight and proper as they would be, more measured and aligned than the stitches on his hip. With the thread finally twined through — over and out — he bit the thread with his teeth and cut it straight through, signaling the end of his work. He held the dress out like a tapestry, admiring the embroidered flowers, the little flare of a daisy at the end of his fixing stitch. Looked nothing like a daisy really, but it was the thought that counted. Anna gasped and squealed, hugging his belly clumsily before putting the dress on. Emil fixed the hem of her skirt, the collar by her neck. He smiled wide for her, flaring his hands in a show of his awe.

“I love it, I love it, _I love it!_ ” She hopped and skipped around, showing off her dress with exaggerated poses. 

“You’re the absolute _prettiest!_ ” Emil gasped, and with a barely concealed preen (that she had probably learned from Emil), Anna shook her head in mock humility. 

“Oh, why yes! _Of course_ I am!” She waved him off like one of those _ridiculous_ old ladies he flattered down the streets when he haggled down the prices of their potatoes with surprising skill. 

He burst out laughing, and his heart tugged with sweet pain at the small gasps of his mother’s laughter beside him. _They used to be so full before._ The morning light was doing her limp hair wonders, though, and her skin shone with a paper clearness where the open windows hit her bed, the wind creeping in to tussle her hair. If one looked upon her, one would know where Emil got most of his looks from. However, if you took away the morning light — one could see the sickness that ate away at her health. The weary ache in her bones and the gnawing of death. 

But his mother, now, was happy and she was beautiful, and Emil loved her. He could not believe that beauty could not live for so very long — but she was there, and he would treasure it. 

“Go — go and show your mother! You look like a beautiful princess!” Helga reached for Anna, petting her hair, shooing her off. Anna ran with purpose, out the open door, down into the hallway, and now Emil faced his mother who put her head on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed before — but her head was now so light. He didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. 

“When have you gotten so good with children and sewing, hm?” She sighed wistfully, as if the passage of time had gone by her and skipped her completely. _Time was all she had left_. “I blink, and you appear, and it’s like you’ve changed without me. I haven’t taught you sewing before. It took me years to finally get it down,” she babbled, taking blue thread into the final run of her stitch on his tunic, standing starkly against the cream white. 

Emil hadn’t said anything, only gazing at where her feeble hands shook and handled his tunic, wobbling with a fragility that mirrored the wavering of his heart; it was trembling in small pieces, as if it could break into shards at any moment. How could he _not_ notice his mother’s weakness now? Now that her life had a fixed number, hanging over like a terrible sword ready to bring down her doom, he couldn’t help but want to notice everything that had brought that fixed number into reality. He wanted to see for himself what he had missed. 

“You’ll be leaving for Finland soon, right? You could let me fix some more of your clothes before you leave —” 

“No, no, I’ll be staying for you,” he shook his head. “I can’t leave you here alone. Finland can wait, cleansing can wait. I have a mother to stay for.”

Helga drew her brows together, the light of the window behind her, and the worrying sickness of her face was brought back. “Your captain came with you, didn’t she? Said that you’ll both be leaving together with your troops.” 

“Yes, yes, but she can understand if I stay. She’ll have that lousy Mikkel with her, I can catch up later. She won’t miss me that much, she knows how much you mean to me.”

“Does she know that I’m a burden to you, then?” 

Emil blinked at the question. “What?”

“I’m a burden to you,” Helga finally said, and a sharp rejection was ready at Emil’s lips, but she continued. “I do not want you to stay and see me like this... I’m sorry, Emil, but you have a life beyond me...I know how well your job pays, and Siv and Torbjörn are heavy with debts right now. _Because of me_. Your _father_. I’m sorry to be your burden to bear, but you simply can’t stay, and you can’t be another burden for them here if you stay _for me_ , my dear. Only _you_ can fix what your father and I had begun, and I don’t want Siv and Torbjörn to hold that responsibility. I’m _so_ sorry, Emil, I truly am. _I’m sorry_ that you’re forced to burden yourself with us, and there is nothing else I can do about it. But, I’m not alone. I have Anna, Sune, Håkan —”

“But—” 

“And I will live, I promise you,” Helga brushed her fingers through his hair. Emil wanted to tell her that a promise such as that was now almost unbelievable to him. A simple grasp of a dream that could be shattered if he simply tried to remember the shape of it, the form of it, and what it had tasted like. _That dream was hope, and like dreams, hope could easily be forgotten._

She said anyway, “I _promise_ to live. I will get better. You don’t have to worry about me, alright? I can send letters — I know there’s a one to two week interval from here to your new base in Finland — yes, I checked through Siv, don’t worry, but I am _sure_ the letters will send. I have a friend in the post office.” She brushed the hair from her eyes, before brushing soothing fingers from Emil’s brow, to his crown. “Now, you _must_ go, okay? Besides, if the cleansing goes well, you can visit me early. You can come back early and I will be fine, Emil, and I might even bake that favorite pie of yours!” 

She was a terrible mother — making her son leave her; making her son live without her, but what else could she do? She didn’t want her son to see her this way, deteriorating like leaves before harsh winter, crumbling into dust. She could feel it in her bones; feel the despair of hers fill her room, into the walls of this house. If she were to spend her time dying, she did not want to spend it with her son fretting over her, slaving over her, _crying_ over her. She remembered the days when Emil bawled as a child; wailed as a teen; muffled his sobs as a man. Those were terrible days. _Terrible times_. Times where she had been too powerless to do anything but hold him, failing at shielding him from the world. This was selfish of her, of course, to push him away — but she could not bear it. She was just as weak and powerless as ever to survive the broken sight of her son.

She knew Emil had had a weak heart since he was a little child. It was why he had been pulled from public school, and into homeschooling immediately. Emil almost _broke_ when he had been made fun of on his first days; he then went terribly ill ( _a weak heart, his doctor had once said_ ). However, when Torolf broke her heart, lost their money, disappeared without a trace — she had to subject her son to the terrible world. 

And this worried son of hers, sad son of hers, whose heart was frail and whose bright smile always wavered — was her doing. 

Now, he had come back from Norway, heart steeled, smile brighter, more warm names on his lips — _Sigrun, Mikkel, Uk, Sahib_ — she had no heart to take that away. She loved her son and she would _not_ be the reason he would cry. His cries, his pleas, his sadness ( _memorized so well into her bones, echoing like a chasm in her ears_ ) would not be her last days. 

She was a terrible mother who loved her son, and she was a terrible mother, who would be sending him away.

“I don’t want to feel like I’m your burden. Truly, I love you,” she kissed his scarred cheek ( _wondered idly how many more was the world’s, and how many more was hers_ ) and smiled at him. “But I would like to know what Finland is like, and what kind of rocks in the river beds they have. So, just come back for me.” 

Emil knew deep down in his heart that he would rather die than leave her, but all beautiful things died, all hopes and dreams faded — and one look upon her sickly beautiful visage, and he was lost. 

“Okay, I promise to come back. For the pie, for the rock. I could even get you some flowers, hopefully, before spring ends.” 

Helga smiled a real smile then — and Emil had never lost a battle to a troll yet — not to a beast, to a giant, and to those näkki in Norwegian lakes and streams. But that smile, this loss, this terrible injury — was far more worse than any battle and any monster he had faced. 

For the second time that day, his heart shattered quite a bit, and he regretted the fact he would be walking away, alive and hurting. 

  
  


* * *

Wet kisses on cheeks were passed around, Sune grimacing, Håkan retching, Anna gagging fakely. Emil pretended to be offended, but it didn’t last for long, and he gave each one a bear hug, squishing the little wiggly bodies into his own, before he stood up to hug his aunt goodbye, and pat his uncle soundly on the back. 

“Make sure to get your prosthetics checked down the road by the ironworker’s okay? Aunt Siv can’t remind you all the time, you old bat,” Emil reprimanded Torbjörn as a farewell, and the man simply groaned. 

“I already have my wife breathing down my neck, not you too!” 

Siv gave her husband a sharp glare and he simply sighed, before ushering the kids back inside. Sigrun stood outside the quaint little gates of their home, waiting patiently and decimating an apple as Siv stood in front of him, smiling worriedly in that perpetual, fretting state of hers. Emil smiled a tired grin back at her.

“We’ll take care of her while you’re gone, don’t worry. Come back home early, okay?” 

Emil, soothed by her reassurance, agreed to her request and left with Sigrun towards the old train station to head to Björköfjärden, to meet the rest of her troops, who she had granted a few days time to prepare because of her and Emil’s detour to Mora. Now, they would be leaving Mora to arrive at Keuruu, Finland, and as Emil tore himself away from Mora, his home, his family — he felt his heart tug this way and that. He felt as if he was betraying a trust he hadn’t the knowledge he had formed, and it was tearing him from the inside. 

Then Sigrun, his captain, spoke, as they entered the great steam engine train, spewing its smoke into the cloudy sky of Mora, with its thick sheets of steel, layered and clustered in such a way — its armor could cut fingers into ribbons if one held its edges, glinting from the unrelenting sun. Sigrun had dropped her rucksacks into the seat next to her, the rest of her troop filing in and occupying their own sets of seats and compartments, for this was not like the Dalahästen, but just a civilian train, heading for Björköfjärden. 

“I heard the doctor mention that magic could solve your mother’s illness,” she said idly, and Emil sighed, uninterested in her thoughtless musings. 

“He meant it as a negative, Sigrun. That means the doctors can’t —” 

“But mages can! I know a few mages from Finland, some healers who can handle cool spells, curses, and illnesses! Trust me! _My_ grandmother, near death’s door, that old bat had been! Got an infected wound, and she wasn’t non-immune! Just waded around in some streams for a bit, and got terribly ill! She —”

“Sigrun —”

“Got healed by one of our own mages, but Finland mages are _eons_ better! Little forest folk are much more connected to nature, all that whimsy, you see!” 

Emil sighed in frustration, scrubbing a hand down his face. “If you’re talking about the same mages that we had in Norway, sorry Sigrun, but I hadn’t seen a lick of magic, not once, _at all,_ ” he shook his head, gazing out the window for a moment as Sigrun rolled her eyes. 

“Cause you’re _heathens,_ Emil. You wouldn’t know what magic was unless it hit you in the face.” 

“And _heathen_ or not,” he emphasized, ignoring her statement, “I doubt Finnish _magic_ and whatever savagery they have over there can even work. I doubt even _they_ would know the illness of my mother.” 

Sigrun did not like the sound of his pessimism and she leant forward and slapped a hand onto his shoulder, startling him. Emil looked into her violet eyes, crackling and electric, the kind of gaze that captains used to hold down their troops, and tether the soles of their boots to the fight, and to reality. 

With confidence in her speech ( _Sigrun was confidence personified_ ), she said, “You haven’t even _tried_ yet, soldier.” Emil sat up straight at the address, and Sigrun leaned back, appraising. “Tell me, when have I ever failed you?” 

Emil did not dare utter a word, for Sigrun Eide, his captain, his mentor, had not failed him once. On the field, in battle, in camaraderie and support. 

“When have I ever failed my soldiers?” 

Emil did not remember, for he only remembered Sigrun, jumping back into battle, dragging bodies of men to safety, to home, and into the welcoming gates of Valhalla. 

With a croak, he said, “You haven’t.”

“When have I lost hope?” 

Emil did not know that Sigrun was even capable of hopelessness, because she marched into dead land with a ready blade, and walked back in with the stains of victory, and the blood of a Valkyrie, coursing through her veins. She marched into war, and always walked out a victor. Alive, hurting, but _living_. 

“You never have.”

Sigrun nodded, “Good. So trust me, Emil, okay? Don’t lose your hope yet. I’ve taught you many things, but I haven’t taught you how to _lose_.” The words struck him soundly. “If you had lost hope then and there, then your mother would’ve been as good as _dead_.” 

His heart jumped, his breath stopped, but she was _right_. 

“We’ll arrive in Finland, we’ll do our job, and we can also ask around for any options we can, okay? Lady Västerström raised a good son, who is becoming one of my _greatest_ soldiers. I could at least _try_ , not as captain, but as friend, alright?” 

Emil’s heart warmed, the glass fissures fixing, reforming — not _all_ the damage — but just the cracks that had been the depth of his fading pain. Just enough that it no longer felt hard to breathe, and live, and _try_ to hope again. 

“Alright,” Emil assented, wiping tears he had not known were there until he had blinked. 

Sigrun sat up. “Oh, and one more thing! The day I _do_ get hopeless, you and Mikkel are allowed to punch my lights out! What a _disgrace_ I would be! You’d catch me dead in a troll’s mouth before I’d let that happen!” 

And Emil grinned, the shape of a dream, of hope — forming, breathing, curling deep in his heart — soft and delicate, if he looked at it, it would break. So he dared not to encourage, but left it there to remain. It would be enough. 

“Will do, Captain.” 

And then, they were off to Finland. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you can't tell: Not-beta'd, and just quickly edited, so I apologize if there are any mistakes!!! This idea to write a Fantasy!/Cursed!AU came out of nowhere, and with careful prompting from a friend of mine, here is the mess that has come out. Pls, enjoy, and leave a comment if you like.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keuruu draws near, and the sun shines a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's not hard to play the victim  
>  When these scars belong to you  
> I'm a walking contradiction  
> To practice what I preach  
> Would be a heavy load to bare ___
> 
> __- **Paralyzed, by KWAYE ******__

Mora was his home, but Finland held a beauty to it that he could not quite place or name, as their boats sailed down the wide rivers. Emil had not seen rivers so wide or so clear before, winding and breaking off into several paths, separating islands and curling its ends around the land like the fingers of a mother, delicately holding onto river stones. The waters were so clear that it was like those thin sheets of new glass, only broken by the stream and the disturbance of their vessel, rippling the sunken boats underneath; the large stones, the fish, the skeletons, the armors. The Keuruu - Pori waterway itself was a relic to be gawked at; its own museum of history, preserved in crystal waters. 

Birdsong flitted and echoed every now and then from the forests that barricaded each side of the waterways, singing along with the river channels that brought them farther in. Some areas of the waterway, of course, they were told to go back down into the hull for safety, as most areas had not been completely cleansed. Every once in a while were they allowed out, and they swallowed in the sights and the fresh air, before they returned to the stuffy hull. 

Emil watched a few birds fly in the sky as he leaned back on the rails of the main deck, not minding the few minutes of freedom he was allowed to rustle his hair in the wind. Despite the freedom, his brow was still furrowed in worry, from the port of Pori, now making its way down to Keuruu. His worry was strewn across his face — clear to everyone who looked. He was also strangely silent; had been since they’ve left.

He heard Sigrun return from her trip around the boat, ordering a few people around to check if anyone had hilariously fallen into the waters, or if some of their equipment had been left at the port or had been mishandled. He sighed. 

“You alright? Enjoying the wind in your gorgeous hair, princess?” Sigrun sidled up right beside him, and from behind her, sat upon a crate, was Sahib who had been busy drawing. He snorted. 

Emil huffed. “ _Y_ _es,_ I _do_ quite enjoy the wind in my gorgeous hair. And what’s so funny to you, huh?” He fluffed his hair up, looking down from the birds to narrow his gaze down at the dark man, whose expression only showed mischief that was scarily like Sigrun’s. 

Sahib shook his head, stroking his ( _admittedly_ ) impressive beard. “No, no, nothing! Just thinking about the presence of your highness. Here, I even drew a portrait!” 

Emil and Sigrun drew close to Sahib, looking down at the charcoal portrait on the parchment paper. It was a crudely drawn Emil, all stick-for-limbs but facial expression drawn with such haughtiness, the only effort to the piece being the attention given to his hair and the sparkles. All of this, ruined of course, by the birds landing their droppings from the sky. 

Horrified and insulted, Emil scrunched his face repulsion, saying “ _Ew_ , that’s disgusting!” and turned his nose away, consciously fixing his hair now that he was aware of possible aerial assaults that could drop right above him. It just reminded him why he _hated_ travelling. With no pity in her heart to console him, however, Sigrun held the portrait in her hands with tears of laughter, cooing at the “ _l_ _ovely attention_ ” given to the hair and the birds. 

A large mass of muscle walked towards them, unnoticed. “As much as I _love_ you merry band of misfits, I’m afraid you have to get your asses back down there,” Uk appeared, and they all jumped. If Mikkel had a twin (Emil was pretty sure Mikkel mentioned he had one, but the Dane could never talk without mumbling, so he wasn’t sure, and Emil had promptly forgotten) Uk could be one of them, except, he was a bit more pinker from the heat of the sun, and his hair was a cobalt black, probably from the oriental side of his family. And unlike Mikkel — Uk had no glorious sideburns at all.

“Already?” It was Emil who asked, and Uk pointed to one of the Finnish handlers of the ship, already singing another song and spying the bend of the river as they were heading down into Näsijärvi. The crew of the ship were bustling, and Emil and the others headed down, Sigrun staying to make sure that everyone had successfully made it safely into the hull. From then on, they now wouldn’t be let out till they arrived at Keuruu. One question itched at him, though. 

“Do their songs really work?” It was directed at Uk, because he knew a fair bit of Finnish culture, since he had been the son of a merchant who travelled frequently down this waterway ever since he was young. “Like, they sing their magic thing, and it — _works_? In their favor? Just like that?” 

Uk blinked, tilting his head softly and Sahib shook his head, saying, “I keep forgetting that the gods and magic don’t come easily to you Swedes.” Emil shrugged ambiguously. 

“To answer your question, at least,” Uk added, looking up at the ceiling, a finger on his chin, “the songs they sing are _runos_ : prayers to invoke the gods and ask for blessings and their favor. I don’t know a lot about them, but that’s generally what they do. And you don’t really _have_ to be a mage just to sing those, it’s just that mages can draw power from them and use them most often for healing and combat — from what I remember. Why do you ask?” 

Emil thought about his sickly mother who was confined to the prison of her bed, and the small freedom granted by her window; Sigrun’s encouraging words on the train and his strong trust in her. Could he put _faith_ into a power that he couldn’t even see? It felt like indulging a silly child’s question, but Emil went ahead anyway. It was _Sigrun_ he trusted — and Sigrun trusted whatever _this_ was. 

“Do you think their magic can heal any unknown illnesses? The kind that um, keeps you exhausted for months, and leaves you bedridden most of the time? Let’s say, when your body stops supporting you and you’re coughing out bloo—”

“Okay, okay,” Sahib calmed him down, holding his hands up soothingly. “Is this about your mother?” 

The miserable look Emil gave them was telling enough and they gave grim looks of acknowledgement, having been told of his mother’s state by Emil beforehand. Now the reason for his worries and absence of his complaining and huffing on the boat — or anything that remotely used Swedish babble was clear to them. 

The look of _their_ uncertainty made his heart deflate, however, pins and needles pricking the skin of his chest, _painful_ — and sensing his impending distress, Uk settled a hand on Emil’s shoulder, calming him down. 

“I have a friend — her name is Tuuri, the captain probably knows her too. She’s one of Keuruu’s skalds, _everyone_ there in Keuruu knows her, and I can introduce her to you,” Uk told him placatingly, letting him lap at the words with a receiving ease. It helped to bring back sense to Emil and he smiled in earnest hope — a small thing, but to Uk and Sahib, it was gentle sunshine through a drizzle. “The rest of her family are some well-known mages. You’re okay with that?” 

They were winding down rivers, channels, and a land foreign from his home — but it held a promise that, in Sweden, he could never hold. In Finland, there were river rocks for his mother, a small ridiculous plan for a cure — and that was all Emil had — just a bit of stone and words to save someone he loved. 

That was fine. He could handle it. He would exhaust every option till there was none left — and if all that was left was _magic_ — well then, he had to put his trust in it the most, _even_ if it was ridiculous, and almost laughable. But he loved his mother and this was all that he had left. 

“Yeah, I’m okay with it,” Emil agreed and Sahib raised his brows in surprise while Uk concealed his with a smile. 

“Alright. Knowing Tuuri, she might be the first person we see….”

  
  


* * *

The sun was up — broken, fractaled — sign of day. The border was safe, signs of troll activity for that evening average compared to every other day during the late springtime — but it would spike soon. The heat of summer was creeping in slowly, sharp and quickly descending; in the taste of the air and the crunch of pine underfoot. Sooner or later, the trolls and beasts would wake. New nests in infected lands would hatch. The nights would become shorter, and there would be longer days of rest. At least he’d meet his bed more, even though evening air never bothered him. Never _really_ did. He liked his sleep a lot — but his job was routine. Far more normal. Sleep was nice, granted, if the nightmares never came. It rarely did, but there were rare occasions that it had, but those were enough to make him wary. 

He filed out his report, cold and cut, as detailed as he could manage. _Northeast, no. Clear. Bridge safe. East — yes, neutralized. Safe to secure. Farmland, secure. Southeast, infested. Avoid. River, avoid._

It was vague, down to its very bones, but it had been the best that the skalds of Keuruu could do with hammering their lessons into his brain. _It had been the best Tuuri could do_ — though to Lalli it was as detailed as it could get. Beyond that, he was hopeless. Scouts and mages knew what they had to do since they were little children. They sensed ghosts since they were infants — or even _before_ they were born. They would hear ghosts and spirits coherently at four. Memorized runos by six. Wandered the forests by nine. Learned how to kill a troll at eleven. 

And if you were like him, you became a scout at thirteen to earn your keep when your home fell. 

He hardly used words — grandma did, but they were straight to the point when it came to him. _Just listen. Look. Observe._ Using words never came easy; he hadn’t been taught by grandma how to use his words at all, to file out a report — and so he drew his own conclusions. Too many would slow you down, and if he grappled at them, his mind would wander and escape, and it would turn down roads into a soft space of white noise, where the galaxy sung above him, the trees whistled, and his skin would thrum. Too many details would drag him down to the point that he’d have to fill out every detail — from rock, to river, to leaf, to wind. _But no, no_ , long words and sentences wouldn’t do. So he never used much. Just straight to the point, direct — _yes, yes,_ good enough so people wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t _question_ and wouldn’t make him talk. 

Still, he tried not to bristle too much when the skald, all brown hair, almond eyes, familiar distrust, went over his report with insulting suspicion. It was routine now, but a part of the routine that he _hated_. When would they stop doing that? _Stupid_ , he thought.

His glaring, bright eyes and hunched shoulders did not go unnoticed. The skald sighed.

“Fine, _fine_ , just go. Go and have breakfast now or whatever you do, Hotakainen,” they said, turning away to file back his report amongst the countless ones on the desk; all parchments and inks, bare from too many words. A dove paper weight held down yesterday’s reports — already marked, along with a few that were coffee stained and older. “I’ll just have Tuuri look over it.” 

_Good_ , Lalli thought, before walking briskly out of the skald office. The air outside was cold with the chill of dawn. It didn’t bother him; he’s survived colder climates, and it wasn’t as bad as the winter. Now, what he would be doing next was the hardest part of his day: _escaping to his barracks unnoticed_. It was just a short walk away — a few minutes if he sprinted. He’d have to make a quick turn, avoid the front of the adjacent building where Onni would probably be by this time of day (waiting for him), avoid any other encounters or bothersome people, quickly make it through the large, open square before he would be in the arms of safety — 

But the square suspiciously had more people than usual by dawn. Warning bells went off in his head, and with an urgency, he straightened up, looking around with a bemused alarm — as if everything was _wrong._ Like everything was moved to the left, and buildings were closer to the walls and the water’s edge, more than they should be.

Captain Aliisa was waiting with a few cadets. Night scouts were returning to their barracks but a few soldiers bustled about — bringing tables and chairs, and what not to the mess hall. A few skalds tittered nervously, facing the direction of the port, where a ways away, a few people were preparing to dock something. He looked towards the closed gates in the water, where boats were supposed to come through, and on the top of the towers stationed near the gates — _red anbaric lights, with one large anbaric spotlight, shining outward through the water_ , he noted. 

He blinked. 

“Lalli! Are you here to watch the Norwegian troops arrive too?” Tuuri approached from behind him, _almost_ throwing her hands around him, before changing the action, patting his shoulder instead. With her near, she smelled like coffee and ink, familiar and a bit overbearing. Lalli endured the brief affection anyway, mind focusing instead on the matter at hand. 

“Norwegian….troops?” His gaze was blank and it told everything she had to know.

Tuuri pulled back, distraught. “Don’t tell me you forgot?! I spent the _whole month_ telling you about their international aid for our cleansing and border expansion plan!” Tuuri was huffing now. Lalli could vaguely remember her talking about it — it was distant, and he had thought it was a joke. But it was hard to grasp, now that a lot of things were happening around them, and at that time, he hardly thought it was funny, so he had promptly forgotten. 

“I thought you were kidding…” Lalli said, and didn’t really know what to say as Tuuri shook her head. 

“Bah! Nevermind, it’s fine! You’ll get to meet all of them soon enough! And Uk will be back too! Oh, isn’t that fun?!” Tuuri’s squeal was too much for the morning. Lalli did not mention the red of her cheeks. “Oh, and Onni’s trying to look for you, Lalli! You _know_ you can’t miss all of his lessons...”

“But —”

“ _No_ _buts_ , Lalli,” Tuuri said in a stern voice, before melting her features down from her stoniness, “at least, that’s how _Onni_ said it. But you better go now, he’s in the usual ward of the hospital. You know where to find him.” 

“ _Mrrrrr_ ,” Lalli grumbled, “you don’t have to _remind me_.” He didn’t like to be reminded, he was going to go anyway. He _knew_ where to go. Feeling thoroughly betrayed, tired, and grumpy, Lalli marched his way to the hospital, pulling his hood over his head to calm his annoyance down before it got the better of him.

The hospital was the place that Lalli had tried avoiding. The wooden halls that wreaked musty medicines, herbs, blood, and antiseptics; its halls that haunted his mind and mocked him. He tried not to think too much about it. He’s seen worse, felt worse, dealt worse. But the hospital always brought in an irk that lay deep in his bones, nestled like rocks at the bottom of a lake, waiting to be plucked. 

When Lalli arrived at the lone, wooden establishment, adjacent to the barracks and brightly lit by archaic anbaric lights, white and burning far brighter in the darker hours — he walked in quickly and wound down hallways, passed by rooms filled with a few sick, a few injured, most recovering, and found Onni by the bedside of a patient. 

“About time, Lalli,” Onni grunted, as he holstered his kantele back onto his back, appearing to finish a morning runo for old Vaughn. Lalli felt the hover of spirits in the air, the quiver of _life_ that most normal people missed, and when Onni summoned such power — there was always such an immovable force to them, sizzling like stars on his skin, but pleasant and heavy on his back. Comforting, though sometimes, a bit overwhelming. Just like Onni was. 

“He has an infection. His fever’s high, he’s pale, and he can barely breathe,” Lalli listed immediately, tasting the sickness in the air that made his tongue sour. “Don’t have to ask. I can tell quite fine. Can I go now?” 

“I haven’t asked because those were clear, but you were right, anyway.” Onni was not looking at him, focused on Vaughn’s face. He didn’t tell Lalli to go. 

Lalli grew uncomfortable and restless, and Onni could tell such, but instead of relenting, Onni stood and walked around the bed, keeping a kerchief of herbs that Lalli spied, was laid out on the bedside table, lit up by a lamp. The herbs looked fresh — signs being: the morning dew and the vibrancy. Herbs in springtime. Onni had probably woken up to prepare, foraged the river and the forests, and was ready to teach Lalli more of his magecraft. 

A part of Lalli’s heart burned at that. An anger — a guilt. He didn’t dare name it. It wasn’t pointed at Onni — but the blame was hard and fixed, aiming at a name that was on the tip of his tongue, not quite there, not quite on his mind either — but the name ( _the memory of it_ ) angered a part of him. Made shame and guilt dig deeper than it ought to. 

But, like every other session (where he had failed at escaping) he shut the memory out, watched Onni work, cure, and sing his magic to life. Normal human illnesses, after all, could easily be fixed by magic and a few herbs with medicinal properties (if you choose the right ones). But staring at any form of healing magic made Lalli queasy and shaken; made the skin of his back crawl and itch, as he spied for an escape. 

But there was nothing he could do. 

Watching Onni work on a broken, frail body reminded him of his mistake — all those years ago, and he loathed to admit that his mistake was like grandmother’s — _well,_ _it almost had been_. And because of that: Onni had dubbed it appropriate for Lalli to learn the craft of healing. Of _course_ he would do it, because between him and his remaining family, his job was the most dangerous and demanding of them all, being both a scout and a mage. He encountered danger far more than they did, and fought trolls, beasts, giants, and exposed himself to mortal injury. It would make sense for him to learn. 

But he didn’t want to. 

Lalli could learn how to fix his own injuries. 

He could learn how to cure illnesses. 

Between him and Onni, he could probably break more curses if he tried. 

_Only for himself,_ of course. But for other people? 

_No, never_. He could never trust himself with that burden. 

He was a mage and a scout: someone who cast magic and ran as far as the earth could take him. Lalli never viewed himself as a healer, a _savior_ , and he never would, and never _will be_. He would never give a part of himself that was beyond him. He’d rather kill trolls and beasts, than to handle the dear life of a person. 

He had seen grandma tried, and she had failed. 

Lalli would never make the same mistake twice. 

When Onni was done healing, and the sun was finally herding in white clouds and blue fields across the sky, Lalli was sat still on his stool next to the bed, eyes zoned in on Vaughn’s face, but never truly seeing. There was a peacefulness now to that face, and it was all Onni’s doing: green pallor gone, sweat now cool on skin, sickness in the air — minimized. And that peacefulness, that _relief_ from pain and sickness, was something that Lalli could never do and grant, and that was fine by him. He knew he didn’t have to. He just hated how it reminded him of his failure. 

Like every session they had done, Onni stood in front of him, gaze soft and stern — a perfect mix that somehow, always grated Lalli’s nerves, yet calmed him down enough that his skin settled and the noise in his head lowered to a manageable volume. 

Onni asked him, “Tell me why you are here again?” 

Lalli’s answer was always the same: “So that I can learn.” 

It wasn’t like he asked Onni to teach him and it wasn’t like Onni had anything bad in mind by reminding him. 

It was just grating for Lalli to never truly come to terms with his own guilt. 

( _Because eight years ago, Lalli’s words failed. His magic failed. He was supposed to lead four cadets with his night report, and was supposed to save them when he found them wounded, battered, and mangled._

 _Eight years ago, four cadets died._ )

  
  


That was why, when Lalli stepped out with Onni from the hospital, and walked into the mess hall, a part of him feared — which was unusual. He’s never had fear quite like this before, and he’s gone through the _worst_ tragedy of Finland they had witnessed so far. He had suffered the deaths of many he knew, yet he’s always had confidence in his skill to even bother fearing these great things. _But this was different_. This was not _eight years ag_ _o_ , with four cadets of Keuruu, and a fateful night where his report failed to communicate danger. 

This was one hundred (or more) soldiers, foreign and reckless; loud and troubled; and a part of him — one that answered to the gods, yielded to the spirits, and heeded the whispers of subtle warning winds — had a feeling that someday soon, he would have to save one of them. 

And he feared that day coming. 

( _Because to him, saving someone hadn’t always been a matter of when,_ but how _._

 _And if you asked him how he could save the life a person, he would answer this: “_ I don’t know.”)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best with this chapter. It sapped the hell out of me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Keuruu and meet new souls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I want to stand on the edge of the water  
>  And see horizons stretch on forever  
> I want to know that there are lands  
> Not yet touched by human hands  
> I want to be the one to find them ___
> 
> - **New Discovery, by The Crane Wives ******

The sun was barely up when they arrived, glancing over the trees and pines that crowded the horizon, tearing soft purples and blues into the reflection of the water beneath their vessel. In front of them, quite a ways away into the water just by the grip of his sight were the fabled barricades of Keuruu — large walls of wood, iron, and steel, stretching endlessly around the isle, across the waters, sequestering into how far — he didn’t know yet. There were barbs near the foot of the walls, and wooden spears and spikes perched upward in an angle, deterring trolls or beasts in the water from drawing near. If he bothered to look through the dim darkness, he could’ve found a few troll corpses speared onto the sharp, pointed ends but he dared not. He felt eager to be on land again.

“Ah, they’ve spotted us over the water,” Uk spoke, and Emil looked at the looming walls of Keuruu ahead, where from the watchtowers, large anbaric lights shone on to their vessel. Then after the light confirmed their vessel, it moved behind and around them in the water. 

“What are they doing?” Emil asked as he shouldered on his rucksack, peering worriedly at the spotlight that beamed on the river’s surface. The crew on the deck were acting vigilant as they guarded different parts of the ship, the men above in the watchtower behaving with equal amounts of caution.

A heavy arm slung over his shoulder.

“Looking for a sign if anything’s trailed after us,” Sigrun told him nonchalantly, “so, prepare to haul off the equipment. We’ll be entering the walls shortly, and from what I remember of Captain Aliisa — there’ll be breakfast awaiting all of us already, which will be great! But _also_ knowing her, unfortunately, I’ll have to have the whole breakfast going over plans with her —”

“Please don’t tell me I’m going with you,” Emil pleaded. 

“ — and I’ll have you going with me. You’re the best cleanser I have in my troop!” Sigrun grinned, and Emil sighed at the prospect of facing a scary Finnish superior, though a part of him was pleased to know that Sigrun did indeed trust him enough to go over plans with her. Rarely did people get to trust him with heavy responsibilities, but Sigrun was Sigrun Eide, who saw a potential weapon even in the most twisted of tree branches. For her to show this amount of trust was great to him — probably not so much to her — but it mattered the most, all the same. When she left to speak with the rest of the troops, Emil stood waiting with Uk at the helm, watching the wall draw nearer as their vessel waded through the water. 

A part of him worried about Keuruu and about his mother; the amount of work that could busy them and the possibility of there being healers that could help him. The worry must’ve shown on his face because Uk settled a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’ll talk to Tuuri if you don’t get the chance. And oh, I’ll save you some breakfast if you get too busy discussing the plans,” Uk told him kindly, as their vessel approached the slowly opening gates, the heavy grate of them echoing beneath the water. Emil’s heart filled with gratitude at that. 

“Haha, _no_ ,” Sahib strode to them, hair and beard disheveled from his sleep. The gratitude in Emil’s heart was dashed. “If the breakfast has meat in them, you’re going to have to be on your own.” 

“You don’t actually mean that,” Emil claimed, rolling his eyes. Sahib, after all his snark and hubris, still cared after Emil and Uk in his silent way. 

Despite that, he quipped, “Don’t challenge me. I have no room in my heart left for the likes of the both of you.” He grinned boyishly in jest, and Emil snorted along with Uk who laughed through his nose. 

Emil turned to Uk. “But thank you, Uk...I really appreciate it, _a lot_. I’d like to talk to Tuuri and her brother myself, though, if you don’t mind. It would be a bit _rude_ if I...just allowed _you_ to speak on my behalf alone.” 

Uk understood his need to be heard himself. “Alright, it’s quite fine. I’ll just warn her ahead that I’ve got a friend then. She likes meeting new people.” 

They shared a grin, then a quiet hush fell.

Drawing into the open gates finally, their arrival was welcomed with an air of silence, flowing into the heart of the air like a small parade of commemoration — of reverence. The normally loud Norwegian soldiers also fell silent where Emil had thought they’d be chattering about. But they did not, and Emil could not blame them. This was his first time in Finland, in Keuruu, and he had not properly swallowed the air, or acknowledged the strange country they were in, but now that they were here: _this_ was what Finland was like. 

Different air, anomalous, _poignant_. 

Norway was airy, to the mountains; winding up from the clouds on high, down to the depths of the fjords below. While in Finland, in Keuruu — there was a depth that bound Emil’s heart, seeing the stretch of the river before him, still quite a long way, but bracketed by forests, concealed within walls — a small pocket of space: cleansed, purified, and _heavy_. Heavy in a way one felt the rain from the heavens, pouring with intention, yet not so heavy that it weighed one down. There was a silent, almost cautious feeling to the air too, as if every invisible eye was on them. As if there were dangers yet to come forth — and _of course_ , because this was Finland. _Savage, archaic, and dangerous._ Far behind Sweden, even farther behind Iceland, and just a bit worse than Norway. 

And Emil — despite believing in Sigrun — still had his misgivings about the existence of magic and of existing pantheons (as normal Swedes do). 

But standing there now, with the dawn slowly breaking through in the blue atmosphere of Keuruu, treading into foreign land, he could feel that doubt slightly shifting; _grating_ his heart, making it throb. If he could taste a fraction of magic, it was there in front of him. On his tongue, grazing his skin, in the smell of the rivers. _Alive._

“You feel that?” Sigrun asked him when she finally sidled up beside him. 

“Sort of…” he said, “yeah. Feels... _heavy._ ” 

“That’s right! See, magic here is dense; _concentrated_ — and I’ll be teaching you how to maneuver around Finland’s terrains, though it’s best to learn from a local first hand, cause there’s some safe spaces, and patches of land that their gods protected or something; in case you get lost in their dense forests. That’s how Finnish mages learn, anyway — from their family, a relative, or some colleague. They’ve walked this dangerous land for years, probably even _bathed_ naked in the rivers during the summers — which is pretty daring of them, you know? But they’re _crazy_ little things, and their lands have always been cruel and harsh. You’ll know that soon enough! Anyways, they’ve handled their way around blights, curses — ”

“Curses? They believe in those things?” 

Sigrun gave him a deadpan stare at his hedonistic skepticism. “Is your pretty head dense?” 

“No, it’s _trying_ to be realistic.” 

“Then tell it to stop trying because it’s sounding _pretty_ stupid at the moment. Besides, you’ve got no room to question magic right now, Emil. You’re gunna have to trust in it to save your mother, remember?” She reminded him, and Emil, at the reminder of his mother and his task, felt admonished, but rightfully so. 

“Yes — yes, of course,” he nodded, more to himself, heart squeezing at the thought of her. Taking pity upon him, Sigrun ruffled his hair. 

“Don’t worry about it, sparkles. It’s fine. If we can get one healer to agree to help us, that’d be great! Besides, your mother still has plenty of time for us to find someone who can heal her, so don’t fret too much! Siv told me that your mother worries a lot about _you_ worrying over her, you know?” 

Emil was not surprised by the news, but he jolted at Sigrun’s knowledge of it. He was aware, of course, that his own mother was discomforted by his own fretting of her, because worrying made you aware of _every possible_ discomfort there was. And if you were Emil, you were conscious about others. You worried what they’d think, what they’d do, how you’d make them feel. His mother’s attempt of getting rid of him was _not exactly_ subtle either and thought it hurt — right now, at this moment (his heart sliding, grating, _colliding_ in such a way, he breathed sharp pain) — he couldn’t stop fretting. Never could. 

He was surprised that Aunt Siv had told Sigrun of it. 

“Oh,” he looked away from her, into the river. Searching. “You _know_.” 

“I know,” Sigrun nodded, smiling ruefully, “so, let’s do her a favor and keep your head on your shoulders for now, alright? Right now, we’ll be facing Captain Aliisa, and then having a great breakfast. After that, we’ll get ourselves situated, and _then_ find somebody who can help; good enough?” 

Emil smiled at Sigrun’s support and guidance, feeling himself calm down. Leaning forward, elbows on the wooden rails of the deck, facing the island that was looming nearer, he said hopefully, “Alright...and maybe we don’t have to search for long...Uk knows somebody.” 

With a bright smile, Sigrun slapped a hand on his back. “See! Things are looking up already!” 

“Maybe,” Emil agreed finally, looking up at the sky, at the clouds heralding a new dawn; a hand over his heart, tugging with the push and pull of their vessel. 

* * *

When they arrived, the sun was up, shepherding clouds across the sky as birdsong finally tore the ambient silence of the rivers. Their boat was docked by the jetty, filled with the noise of Norwegian and Finnish soldiers alike. When Emil stepped off the gangplank with Sigrun, internally worried with the state of his hair and his stature, he stood before the presence of Captain Aliisa Heinonen. Her cobalt black hair was a magnificent thing, coiled in dreads, and her skin was ivory and dark, framing her steely grey eyes with such coldness. She looked built for harsh life, towering a few inches over Sigrun herself. 

Emil swallowed thickly at her indifferent gaze. 

“Captain Eide,” Captain Aliisa said with an accent, nodding at Sigrun and holding out a hand. “Hope you and your men arrived safely with no mishaps and losses.” 

Sigrun clapped a hand into Aliisa’s offered hand, shaking it firmly. “My men know not to die before I do! They’d be stupid to break a rule like that. Anyways, your Norwegian has gotten better than last time! That’s great! And don’t act so stuck up with me! It’s unnerving.”

To Emil’s astonishment, Captain Aliisa quirked one end of her lip, brows raised in amusement. “Dear friend, I live to unnerve you. And your men are wise not to die on the journey — summer is only beginning to descend after all. Anyways, my skalds will take your men to the mess hall, where we will brief them later, and for now, we have urgent matters to discuss. And this is…?” 

Captain Aliisa turned her icy gaze to Emil, looking down at him. Trying to seem unfazed, he stood tall ( _as tall as his height allowed him_ ) and saluted. “Emil Västerström, Captain Heinonen. Captain Eide’s second in command!” 

“Second in command, hm?” Emil tried not to falter at her skeptic tone.

Sigrun nodded. “Yep! My little Swedish Cleanser! Took him under my wing from the Swedes — a catch, really. A Viking in the making.” 

Emil felt soothed when Captain Aliisa nodded, saying, “Ah, of course. You saw potential in _their_ flocks. That’s good. Come with me.” 

They separated themselves from the crowded jetty, and Emil took in Keuruu as they wove their way through the base, passing by the barracks and various wooden infrastructures surrounded by copses of trees. He had been surprised by the fact that a few establishments held anbaric lights and electric power, under the belief that Finland was _too_ archaic and behind on power and innovation. He felt shame, however, in thinking so, because that was probably his ignorance speaking. Keuruu _did_ have power, just like Mora. Though to be fair, the establishments here were wooden, and was half forestry wherever he went. One couldn’t blame him for thinking it old. 

They entered a large building at the center of the base; strong, wooden beams and pillars. Flags were hung by the entrance, and people wove in and out the large doors. There was no doubt this was Keuruu’s Command. Captain Aliisa led them to her cramped office, where on a large table, was a map of the surrounding islands of Keuruu and the veins of waterways, woven around them. 

They soon got the discussion underway: the cleansing of a few nearby isles for the expansion of cleansed territory, and possible future settlements. The barricades and fences that would have to be put up in order to keep trolls at bay from entering new cleansed lands. There still remained old world villages within the isles that hadn’t been destroyed nor burned down in their last attempt at cleansing the land. Last year’s summer heat had brought out too many unwanted trolls and beasts into the surrounding isles, and cleansing wasn’t exactly a quiet affair to be done during daytime in the summer. They lost a handful of men back then— and by Finland’s standards, that was already far too much.

“So around three to four isles will be cleared out for new settlements?” He had asked, eyes tracing the map. 

“Yes, hopefully by the end of this year’s cleansing cycle,” Captain Aliisa tapped her fingers on the table while she peered at his face, “a bit ambitious, but we want to do so as soon as possible. So, if you have concerns about the stretch of land we’ll cover, as well as the terrain and the ancient settlements we’ll be burning down, you can ask about them now. One of my scouts had checked on the isles beforehand.” 

“Could you kindly fetch the scout? I need to know in depth what they know,” Sigrun peered forward into the map too, peering at the veins of the river and the isles that had been marked for their cycle. Captain Aliisa went ahead and poked her head out the door, shouting at someone to fetch the scout. ( _“Go get Hotakainen — yes, the scout one, go! And be quick, Vilmar. Don’t start anything with him, please.”_ ) She returned to the map with them.

Emil worried his bottom lip, heart torn as he played with the edges of the map. He knew Finland was a different terrain, but he hadn’t anticipated the drastically different measures and tactics they had to take in order to cleanse different isles. The settlements in Finland were separated by bodies of water, and those very paths of travel also served as danger for them. A problem in Sweden and Norway you wouldn’t normally encounter.

He licked his lips. “You’re right, it’s a bit too ambitious...though not impossible. My only major worry right now is the time constraint. Three, maybe four isles, right? I don’t know how big some of the islands are, but I’m assuming the stretch of lands to cover are large, and the cover of your forests are... _big_. And the waterways could be dangerous — not to mention the time we spend travelling via water, along with setting up barricades. I don’t know if we can finish with the allotted time.” 

Sigrun nodded, tracing a path with her finger. “The last time I was here, the waterways served as a path for several herds of beasts didn’t they? Well, that was a long time ago, but how do we keep them out of the way if they happen to become aware of us? Setting up temporary barricades in the water could work, though I don’t know how well.”

“No need for barricades. Herds of infected cattle and boars always move via the water system. It’s hard to keep track of them sometimes, but we depend on the scouts to map out their routes and keep them at bay. Same goes for any other threats. Luckily, the sun hardly sets during the summer, so they won’t be walking about into the daylight unless there’s clouds and more cover. We are safe.” 

Captain Aliisa was sure of this, and without personal knowledge of the isles and the waterway, Emil did not question her further, mind more worried about the amount of time it would take them to clear out three, or maybe four isles. Something they never really did in Sweden or Norway, since land was more or less connected where he had to cleanse. A part of him, however, worried some more about his mother.

With the tight schedule, could it leave him enough time to find someone who could heal her? Uk knew somebody — Tuuri, whatever her last name was — and though Emil trusted Uk, he didn’t know if this Tuuri person or if her family of mages would say yes to helping. They could ask for compensation, for money, and if they did, Emil hoped he had enough to satisfy them. And if they didn’t want to help, of course, he could ask anybody else, but searching the isle of Keuruu for somebody willing to help could take some time. 

Emil looked up from the map, at the same time someone stopped by the doorway of Captain Aliisa’s office, left ajar for the person to step through. They were thin, tall, and gangly, and Emil could not help but stare momentarily in worry as the person stepped into the anbaric light of the room, wide eyes intense and focused as they looked from Captain Aliisa — then finally, onto him. 

Emil absently noted the silver hair, the sharp face that could cut his fingers into ribbons, their squared stance — and the person said something to him. In Finnish. Nothing that Emil understood. ( _Their voice was soft and whispery._ ) Those eyes were sharp, looking through him, and his heart shook — in a strange way, tingling. _Hurting_. He did not know what the mage said, so he turned to Captain Aliisa who glared at the person.

“ _Hotakainen!_ ” She reprimanded somehow instead of translating, and the scout snapped out of his intense gaze, blinking at the captain. Emil flinched at the cold tone of her voice. “ _Don’t be rude. They’re the troops from Norway, and you will be working with them soon enough. Did Tuuri not tell you, or did you forget that too?_ ” 

The scout widened their eyes, looking lost and confused, before thoroughly tensing up at Captain Aliisa’s glare and disappointment. His shoulders were tensing, and it reminded Emil of Bosse when he was terrified or confronted. He felt bad for the scout for some reason, so he soothed Captain Aliisa, “It’s okay Captain, whatever he said! I don’t mind, _really_ , I don’t! We should get back to the matter at hand, right? We have to hear him out. H’s scouted around these isles, right?” 

Sigrun looked at the interaction with well-hidden apprehension before nodding as she played with the sheath of her blade. She tried to break the tension with a languid smile. “Yes, Aliisa, everything’s fine. I bet the scout’s just as hungry and tired as we are. Come on now.” 

Captain Aliisa acquiesced to the request, and Emil sighed in relief, looking up and handing a small, relieved smile to the scout who warily eyed Emil in return. He made space for the scout beside him (who did not care to move near him, which was _fine_ , Emil was _not_ offended by this, _really_ ), and they proceeded with the discussion. Emil could not shake the feeling of the scout’s eyes on him however, and in the back of his mind, he itched to know the words that the scout had said to him when he entered. 

The pain of his chest was forgotten momentarily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention this fic is slow burn? Because what's also burning slowly is me, creating these chapters. OAIJOAIDJOAS I'm always trying to stay 2 or chapters ahead of what I've written, so I'm sorry for the wait! anyways, muwah! See you next week, or something!
> 
> \- trash <33


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